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week with Mercer than in his entire life. He thought it wise to give his body a rest for a while. Howard chuckled again. He’d had six hangovers in seven days, and not once had Mercer shown any ill effects from the alcohol they’d consumed. The man’s guts were harder than the rocks he mined.
    It took more than an hour to reach the quiet development north of Los Angeles where Howard owned a modest bungalow. Between the drone of the limo’s tires, the mesmerizing lights of other vehicles, and the occasional mutterings of the driver to his dispatcher, Howard was lulled to sleep, waking only as the car pulled into his development.
    Howard’s home was third from the end of a cul-de-sac butting against one of Los Angeles’ increasingly rare patches of woodland. It was a little past ten, yet the street was quiet and dark, the only light coming from street lamps and the occasional porch fixture. The limo pulled unerringly up to Howard Small’s yellow and red one-story house. The driver’s familiarity with the neighborhood should have alerted Howard, but he failed to notice it.
    He stepped out of the car and looked up the street, hoping a neighbor would see him with the stretch limo, but even Mrs. Potter, who seemed to always be walking her dachshund, was tucked in for the night. The driver too scanned the street, his eyes sweeping the area with military efficiency. He recovered the bags from the trunk and followed Howard up the driveway, past the scientist’s decade-old Honda. At the door, Howard fumbled with his keys while pulling a ten-dollar bill from his pants as a tip. He turned the key in the lock and was just about to relieve the driver of the bags, when the man powered a shoulder into him, shoving him bodily into the house.
    Howard fell to the carpeted floor, the wind knocked out of him. He lay wheezing as the driver dumped the suitcases in the entrance and banged the door closed with his hip. A silenced automatic was already in his hand, the weapon nearly lost in the man’s large fist. Before Howard could react, a living room light snapped on, revealing three other men, two more Arabs and a Caucasian with a silver crew cut and washed-out blue eyes. The two Arabs were standing, while the other man lolled in a soft overstuffed chair, a nearly empty glass in his hand. Even in this frozen tableau, Howard knew that the seated man was in charge and the most dangerous person he had ever seen.
    On both counts, he was correct.
    Ivan Kerikov set his drink on a coffee table, carefully placing the glass onto the ring of condensation that marred the otherwise clean surface. “No one was outside when you drove up?” His voice was low and menacing, with the thick guttural accent of his native Russia.
    “No one saw us enter,” the driver said, crossing the room to stand at the side of one of the Arabs. The two were of a type, large and dangerous with the flat expressionless faces of bodyguards.
    The third Arab was younger by a few years, early thirties, and handsome in a cruel way with thick hair and a body that was as lean and rippled as a scorpion’s. His most noticeable feature was his eyes. They were small and dark, with an inner fire that threatened to burn free at any moment.
    “I told you it would be simple to capture him, Kerikov,” the young Arab said, glancing at his two henchmen for confirmation.
    “Shut your mouth,” Kerikov snapped.
    It was a risk interrogating Small in his own home but one Kerikov couldn’t avoid. He had heard of Howard Small only the day before and hadn’t had time to snatch him in Alaska. Nor did he have the time to establish a more private base in Los Angeles. However, there were psychological benefits to torturing a person where he felt the safest, especially in his home. Small lay on the floor, trembling like a child, his lower lip quivering so much that he had to bite down to still it. His eyes had grown huge with fear.
    “Whatever it is you want,” he finally managed to stammer,